Trangression Of Trust
by pharo
Summary: A life built by lies.


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Transgression Of Trust

Author: Pharo

Disclaimer: 'Alias' belongs to J.J. Abrams, Bad Robot, Touchstone, and ABC.

Summary: A life built by lies.

Spoilers: "Almost Thirty Years". 

Notes: Credit Dauphine Challenge.

Feedback: pharo@newyork.com

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'I am sleeping on a time bomb and I am waiting for the light to come, you and I could get away now, do you know?' ---Vertical Horizon, _'We Are'_

You were ten at the time and yearned to be regarded as something other than "sweet Sydney". You wanted nothing more to rebel against something; anything, really---it could've been as simple as refusing to eat the mystery meat at lunch as long as it involved a defiance. 

Your form of rebellion was involved with storms. You didn't believe in using umbrellas when it rained. Rain was a natural occurrence---so simple, yet with the potential to become something complicated and destructive. When you were eight, you'd leave through the backdoor and run down the street with your arms spread like an eagle's when it rained. Your father wasn't aware that you'd left the house until he called your name and your nanny yelled that you were outside. She'd grab an umbrella (and your raincoat) and run after you into the streets. 

"I'm counting to three, Syd, and then no desert," she'd shout from halfway across the street. "1…2…"

She didn't want to relinquish dessert as much as you wanted her to.

Anyway, now you hate rain. It makes the world damp and dreary. It's cold and causes people to shake umbrellas that wet your nice and dry business suit. You hate suits. You hate wearing them. They remind you of work, which reminds you of twenty other people on the same floor, wearing suits. It seems strange to you why SD-6 and the CIA---organizations that try to remain in the shadows---make their workers wear suits to work. Suits never imply normal. Suits speak of gun-totting agents named "Bristow" who glance back at every corner they turn in life. Normal people named "Sydney" don't wear suits to work. You don't wear suits anymore, but you're not really normal. Is it rebellion? Maybe.

You don't take midnight walks to piers. You don't go to secret meetings in warehouses either. You haven't left the room in days. You watch sports he would watch and read books about lives that could never resemble your own. Stories about heroes that are distinguishable figures of good. About people who succeed in saving others. About people that are not you.

You listen to classical music when you can gather the strength to walk to the stereo and put in a CD. Sometimes, if you're fortunate, it drowns out his voice in the back of your mind. Most times though, luck isn't on your side. You hear him all over again and feels the shivers go up your spine. One word that sucks the wind out of your lungs and stings your eyes.

"Please."

You see the scene replay in your eyes once more. The expression on his face when you lift up the fire extinguisher time and time again and smash it against the two by four window.

"Syd, get out of here _now_. Just, let go of the extinguisher and run," he mouths once again in your mind.

During the replay, you scream again for him to fight the water. You want to tell him that it was a bad plan…a horrible plan that involves elaborately mapped out details, webs of lies, and deceit that makes you sick to be a part of. You burst the big red ball and he's supposed to get out (he knew you could get out). Damn his noble heart for waiting for you. That's not how the plan was supposed to go. 

"Syd, are you listening?"

You look up and blink through the dissolving replay. Voices fade, surroundings disappear, but his face lingers for a moment longer. Ultimately, anything to distract your from your memories is welcomed.

"Francie," you say with relief before starting the lies. "Sorry. It's just that the trip to London kind of exhausted me."

"Are you ok, Syd?" 

"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine," you lie automatically.

You're thankful that Will isn't here to watch you lie like you've done a hundred times before. You hate when people watch you work. You hate them having knowledge of the horrible person that you are.

"Is that all?" she asks you.

"Don't," you silently plead. "Don't do this to me." 

But you don't voice it. You never voice it. You continue to lie through your teeth, wondering if you will reach a point where the lies exceed the truth. You're afraid of getting so lost that you'll start to believe the lies. Even now, sometimes (for about five seconds), it happens to you. You didn't sign up for this. When you told Dixon years ago, he told you that you didn't read the fine print. No one ever did.

Francie continues talking about her new restaurant, but even her voice disappears like the betrayed voices in your memories. You squeeze your eyes closed and wonder how to make yourself disappear.

Time seems to stop and you feel as if you've had your eyes closed for years. And then you hear the metallic click of a door closing and open your eyes to find Will in your house. He seems to be searching your face for something that doesn't exist.

You wonder if you should greet him and ask how he's doing or something to that effect.

"What happened to your hand?" Francie asks him, looking at his bandaged wrist.

"I, uh, fractured my scaphoid bone. I fell while jogging," he says, blushing a bit.

  
He's not a bad liar, but he isn't as good as you. He doesn't have the years of experience. He doesn't know the art of hiding your hand underneath your pillow or in jacket pockets. 

You aren't sure which of the possible truthful responses are more frightening: "Sark broke it for me" or "why don't you ask them what they did?" (no, he'd never say that to you). The best answer in the scenario is "they knocked me down to bring me there". Luckily, you receive what you expect---a lie. 

You seem to sit there for hours, watching (glimpsing at him actually, you were never a watcher) him glance at you every so often. 

You laugh at their jokes, not because you find anything funny (nothing is funny about anything), but because it's unnerving to think that maybe the friendship you have forged is ruined. 

It's naïve of you to think that it hasn't happened already. You close your eyes again to think. 

The moment he saw you at that Paris club, everything normal ended. You know he'll never look at you the same way again. He'll always think, "is she lying?" or "I wonder where she's _really_ going". You know that. 

"Do you have any Advil?" you hear him ask Francie.

"Yeah. Don't get up, I'll get it."

You open your eyes because you know he wants to talk to you. He's nervous. He doesn't know what words to use or how to address you. You can see it all. You've been known to read people well.

"Syd, how's the hand?"

It catches you off guard for a second. You look down thinking that the covers might've slipped, but they are intact. He catches on well.

"Healing," you say with a slight grin.

"I, uh, heard what happened to Vaughn."

"How?" you stammer with a little panic.

"Jack. I was there when you called Jack."

You breathe in a sigh of relief.

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"Dad. Dad, Vaughn. I can't get him out, Dad. He's going to drown, Daddy! Oh God, he's going to die."

You shake the memory off like a horse shaking of flies on a hot summer day. 

"Will, we can't talk---"

"I know. I just wanted to tell you that I'm sorry."

You nod just as Francie comes in.

"What'd I miss?" she asks.

"I was just telling Will how tired I was."

"You should quit the job, Syd. It's not worth it," he says, but you can feel the mutual understanding of why it's not possible.

"Oh Will, you know she's not going to quit her job. Not when she gets to fly to luxurious places like Memphis and Boston," Francie replies sarcastically.

"Hey! Memphis is a nice place."

You smile and talk about how great Memphis is. You've been there. Memphis, Egypt is a wonderful city. Warm and beautiful with tanned men and women selling postcards of pyramids and mummies. But you don't tell them about Egypt. Instead, you make up some lie about the banking system in the affiliated banks there.

"I've been to Omaha," Will chips in. "It's full of old farms turning over grain."

Yeah, he's a swift one. You can't tell if he's lying or not. You don't care to either.

"Let's go grab some dinner," Francie suggests. 

She goes on to talk about how she wants to observe how other restaurants handle their customers and their efficiency. You smile at her excitement, but politely decline, stating reasons of fatigue and a lack of hunger. They're not lies. You haven't been hungry in days and you are tired---of the lying, of the truth, of the lack of routine.

"Come on, Syd," she begs you.

"No, go ahead. Seriously. I might go over to Dixon's. It's his birthday today," you half lie. 

It _is_ Dixon's birthday, but there's no way you're joining in the celebrations. He wouldn't want you there even if you wanted to go (which you secretly admit is true). He thinks you've violated his trust; you couldn't disagree with him without emitting another lie.

You think about calling him to wish him a happy birthday after your two friends have left, but ultimately you decide against it. 

You spend the night curled up in your soft blue blanket (you've switched to a new flowery detergent) watching depressing movies on television. 

Half way through the second movie, your mind wanders to count how many peoples sacred trust you've violated. You'd make a list, but it'd be too long to continue in your head. Instead, you check off the important ones (it reminds you of grocery shopping with less money than items).

  
Vaughn. You've lost his trust (that goes without saying for you've lost him). He relied on you to save him like you relied on him countless times to listen. But when push came to shove, you couldn't even hold a damn door open for him. Three seconds and he would've been out and you'd go have coffee to celebrate bringing down the KGB. Instead, you watched him drown, never knowing if there could've been something there with him. He would've died if there were, but at least you wouldn't be stuck with "I wonder if…"

Will. From the look on his face when he sees you, you have come to terms with the fact that the only truthful replies you're going to get are the ones you make up in your head. It's better that way. Sometimes, the truth hurts. You've been hurt enough times to do it all over again. 

"I don't love you because of what you do or what you don't do. I just love you."

You rather hear the lies. Still, various conversations fly by in your mind that end with "do you want to stay for dinner" or something equally stupid. That's all that can exist within you two now. Lies, stupid conversations, and an ever-widening hole that'll ultimately suck up your friendship.

Your entire life is lies. From the moment you were born to the day you'll die, you'll be living the lie. The glass of truth has long been shattered and there's no one left to be the glue to fix it. 


End file.
